


A Slip of the Tongue

by JadeLavellan (Jadestone)



Series: Jacinth Lavellan [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Pining, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3958918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadestone/pseuds/JadeLavellan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Solas forgets to watch his words, and has to face their consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Slip of the Tongue

It is just after a battle with a group of Venatori that the word slips out. The Inquisitor and her companions were traveling back to Skyhold from the Exalted Plains, and walked around a corner and directly into the middle of one of the enemy camps. There had been no time to plan or strategize; nothing to do but immediately attack. Lavellan had taken a slash across her arm after allowing one of them too close—sacrificing her own safety rather than break off her spell before it was complete. It was brave and stupid, and she’d singlehanded killed the other three instantly and saved them all at least another ten minutes of brutal fighting for her efforts.

Solas was not pleased.

“That was reckless,” he snaps, fingers grazing over the wound as his healing magic slowly repairs her flesh. “You cannot put yourself at risk like that.”

Lavellan grimaces, squinting in the harsh afternoon light of the Plains. “I survived. It was worth it.”

It has been weeks since they traveled together to Haven within the Fade— weeks since she kissed him, and since he abandoned all better judgment and kissed her back. It was probably hypocritical of him to be making such accusations about her impulsiveness, but he is reluctant to admit to himself that the twist of panic inside his chest as the knife slashed into her had more to it than just losing the “Inquisitor” and the Anchor.

Weeks since he begged for more time to consider, and has been silently fuming with himself for letting his heart get tangled in with this mess he’s created as well.

 _And for not kissing her again as soon as she came to him in_ this _world_ , a sly voice inside his head—one that sounds much younger than his real one—chimes in.

He ignores it. He has had to often, of late.

“It would not be worth it if you had not,” he argues instead. “You are not just another fighter, _da’len_. You are the leader of this Inquisition, and putting yourself heedlessly in harm’s way benefits no one.” He takes a breath to continue his lecture, but stops as he glances up from her cut to be met with a furious stare.

“ _Da’len?_ ” she echoes, snatching her arm back.

He lets her go in his surprise.

" _Da’len?!_ ” The anger in her voice grows as she repeats the phrase. “Did you just call me a—“ she stops, unable to finish the sentence in her sudden irritation.

He has, he realizes somewhat belatedly, made a mistake.

“Is that what I am to you? Nothing more than a foolish infant to be chased and watched over, in case I get myself into trouble? Oh!” She throws her arms into the air with one last glower before stalking away from him and back onto the path, mindless of her half-healed injury.

“We’re done! Let’s go!” she shouts briskly to the party, not looking back to see if the others follow as she restarts their march through the scrubland and cliffs.

“What was that about?” Cassandra mutters to Dorian behind him.

“I believe our dear apostate called the Inquisitor a ‘child’,” Dorian replies, not even bothering to whisper. Solas can hear the amused smile in his voice, and does not turn to look at either of them before following the Inquisitor’s trail, ears burning in frustrated embarrassment.

 

 He thinks, at first, to wait to approach her until her mood improves; but even after several hours, Lavellan still seems annoyed. Every time he thinks she’s maybe given up her raging, and risks walking a little closer, she shoots him a look darker than the Black City itself and speeds ahead, once more visibly seething. The pace she sets is already demanding, and the anger that quickens her steps has the rest of them exhausted after a full afternoon of walking. The steady sunlight beats unrelentingly on the group  as they travel, and there is only small comfort in the occasional shade of the twisting forests that grow more frequent as they head towards the mountains. Dorian is audibly gasping for air, and even their stoic and stalwart warrior has a grimace set across her face.

Solas decides, with some regret, that he is going to have to apologize.

With difficulty, he manages to catch up to their illustrious leader.

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” he pants, figuring it’s best to stick to her formal title rather than risk messing up again and making her even angrier. “I did not mean to cause you offence earlier. I spoke without thinking.”

“So it’s your automatic instinct to call me a child, then, if you didn’t have to think about it.”

“What? No, I—“

“Do you expect me to start treating you as some elder, then, now? Call you _hahren_ and cling to your every piece of advice?”

This conversation is decidedly not going the way he had hoped.

“Perhaps we can stop for a moment, and talk this through,” he tries.

“Oh! What’s wrong? Having trouble keeping up now, _old man_? Are we walking too fast for you?”

He glances back to where Dorian and Cassandra lag far behind, the other mage’s staff trailing in the dirt behind him as he drags himself forward.

“Since you bring it up—”

“Well, grab that _walking stick_ of yours, and hobble faster. These rifts aren’t going to close themselves! No time to waste.” She lengthens her step yet again, striding determinedly through the underbrush.

Solas lets her overtake them, falling back to a safe distance from her barbed tongue as he fingers his insulted staff, pride wounded. Old? Was that really how she saw him? Even if he _is_ far older than she could ever imagine, the insult still stings. He feels foolish and flustered— _this_ is who, with a mere smile, can set his heart thundering in his chest? If she knew who he was—but she doesn’t.

That’s part of it, he realizes with a sinking feeling. She is absolutely not afraid of him; no trace of subservience in any of their interactions. She listens to his advice, of course, and is unashamed to ask him questions about anything and everything—but she just as often ignores his opinions in favor of her own decisions. Despite his annoyance at being mocked, he can’t help but wonder if she’d be equally assertive in other respects. _That indomitable willpower again…_

A dramatic groan behind him snaps him out of his brief contemplation. Dorian has noted the Inquisitor’s increase in tempo yet again.

“I am going to collapse and die on this horrible road and it is going to be entirely your fault,” he declares mournfully as he half-staggers past the elf. “Maybe do the rest of us a favor, and keep out of her line of sight for a while.”

With an irritated sigh, he lets the Tevinter get a good lead ahead of him before restarting their determined march.

The torment does not end when they finally stop to camp that night. The sun has fully set when Lavellan unwillingly halts, at Cassandra and Dorian’s plea that their human eyesight can’t lead them any further. But the scattering of stars strewn across the heavens still provide enough light for _him_ at least to see the Inquisitor’s tight-lipped expression.

“For the best, probably,” she agrees. “You know how cranky Solas can get if he doesn’t get enough sleep.”

Solas closes his eyes, every ounce of willpower spent on forcing himself not to respond.

“I’m going to bed,” Lavellan announces, and grabs her belongings and turns away without any further preamble.

Cassandra pauses next to him, eying the Inquisitor as she retreats. She claps him brusquely on the shoulder as their Herald vanishes into the tent.

“Whatever it is you said to her,” she advises, “don’t say it again.” Then she, too, clambers inside the tent and out of sight.

Solas glances about for Dorian, and finds him already sprawled and sleeping in their second tent, not even having bothered to disrobe. The mage lies diagonally across the floor, one still-booted foot halfway through the canvas entrance.

With an inward groan, Solas trecks into the forest for firewood. First watch will have to be his, it seems. Bleakly, he considers the rest of their journey back to Skyhold. It will be four days at least. Lavellan couldn’t possibly hold a grudge that long, could she?

 

She could, it turns out. They wake slowly the next morning, no one speaking very much. Dorian is unusually silent, looking unhappy and disheveled as he tugs at his wrinkled robes, and Cassandra pokes mutely at the fire. Solas carefully murmurs a good morning to Lavellan, hoping that her feelings for him have softened again overnight.

“And you rested well, I trust?” she retorts. “Your back doesn’t ache too much after so much traveling outdoors? Old joints, you know,” she confides to Dorian as she turns to finish stowing their gear.

The Tevinter mage rolls his head to smirk at Solas. _Well done_ , he mouths silently, and Solas bites back a sigh of exasperation. It had been one careless expression! He had not meant much of anything by it, except to hide his own profound relief that she was mostly unharmed.

He avoids her on the long journey back, as much as is possible for a tiny band traveling together. After a morning of dodging several more insults while attempting to patch things up, she stops interacting with him directly for the rest of the trip. But she clearly does not forgive him: he catches her watching him with a hurt expression, though it shifts quickly to one of annoyance when she realizes she’s been spotted, and she turns away.

           

At Skyhold, it is she who avoids him. For three days, he sits in the rotunda, waiting for the familiar sound of her footsteps as she comes to say hello. For three days, he is met with only silence, and the quiet echoes of conversation from the upper floors. At first, he was annoyed with her reaction. Then, he was resigned, certain she would work past it on her own, if she would not allow him the chance to apologize. Now, he is worried.

And when he learns she’s preparing to leave for another mission, and this time does not plan to take him along, he is surprised at how much it stings. It’s not that he thinks he has a right to accompany her on every quest, or that he is always the right person to bring, but—he had gotten used to being asked. To traveling with her, in between the weeks they both spent at Skyhold. He hadn’t realized how much it had meant to him that she always wanted to bring him along until she withdrew; a tightening in his chest he half hates himself for.

 _I_ _t is better to let her stay angry, stay away,_ he tells himself. Allowing himself to grow closer to her would be… foolish. If she is backing away, he should let her. Their kiss in the Fade will soon fade from her mind, even if it burns in his memory like a glowing ember, and flares brighter than sunlight when she smiles at him. But she has not smiled at him for days now, and still his heart races against his chest whenever he glimpses her, from across the hall or in a swirl of her robes before she vanishes around a corner. _Kissing her again would be unwise,_ he thinks, trying to believe it. He will let her retreat, then, he decides. Maintain his careful distance, and ignore the pained look in her eyes every time she gazes at him.           

He does not want to.

It is almost as simple as that, but still he holds back, some part of him still flickering with wariness. But—he cannot let her leave, not like this. He does not deserve her affections—and she certainly deserves more than whatever _his_ heart can offer—but he will not allow them to part with this misunderstanding still clouding their relationship. Whatever their relationship even _is_.

He had not meant to call her _da’len_ , not really. Not in the way she knew it, at least. In his head, he is always speaking to her in _Elvhen_ , longing for the shared tongue that is theirs alone. But the People now remember so little of the old ways, even their language. Even if she could understand what he meant, how could she answer? So he keeps the words in his heart, instead:

_Ma sa’lath. Ma’lan. Vhenan._

Endearments and praises that float through his thoughts, if never past his lips. He would not be able to explain what he wanted to call her, not without risking everything. But neither can he bear this tense forced silence.

Abruptly, he stands from his desk, chair scraping against the floor. The noise echoes through the rotunda, and several people at the railings above glance down at him as he strides to the door, heedless of their stares.

 

It does not take him long to find her, not when he glances into Josephine’s office and finds it empty. He can hear voices drifting down the hall, muffled by the thick planks of the door to the War Room. He waits outside, his face a mask of patience; but his telltale hands fidget and twist at the jawbone necklace hanging on his chest. He presses his thumb into the teeth, trying to sort out what he could even say to her, when he does not know why she’s so angry in the first place.

But then the door is opening, and he clasps his hands behind his back to hide their nervous fiddling. Cullen exists first, noting his presence with surprise, but nods before striding away. Josephine follows, the pretty advisor giving him a pleasant smile and a warm hello as she bustles off with her stack of notes.

Voices still echo inside the room as he enters, the room softly lit with slanting shafts of daylight; the air speckled with motes of glittering dust. Lavellan’s back is to him, still studying the large map before her. Her slender fingers tap lightly on the table as their Spymaster finishes explaining some detail or other of the mission she plans to embark on. As he walks through the doorway, Leliana gives him a startled look, and her eyes dart swiftly between the Inquisitor and himself. When Lavellan notices and turns, she too visibly starts, clearly not expecting to encounter him here.

“I’ll get back to you with the results as soon as they arrive,” the Spymaster hastily concludes before darting out of the room. Solas thinks he sees the tiniest of smiles flash across her face as she turns, but he is only half-paying attention to anything that is not the Inquisitor.

She keeps her eyes downcast, jaw set as she turns to follow the woman out the door. “I’m very busy,” she says stiffly, taking a step forward.

He seizes her arm before she can go more than two paces.

“We must talk,” he tells her, swallowing his pain at the way she stiffens in his grip. He releases her, not wanting to give her the chance to wrench herself free.

“You’ve made it perfectly clear you’re not interested in talking to me,” she mutters.

Solas stares at her in utter confusion, and she sees it in his face as she finally looks at him for only a moment before glancing away again.

"No,” she amends, “I mean—you don’t want to see me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, _lethallan_ ,” he tells her honestly. It is the first time in a long while he has openly admitted ignorance, and in this area, he is glad for it.

“Oh! So it’s _lethallan_ , now, is it?” Anger returns her gaze to his, sparks flaring in her eyes. “ _Da’len_ when you think I’m careless, _lethallan_ when you want something from me?”

His own temper begins to flare alongside hers. “ _What_ are you—“

“Just—you’ve made it clear, okay? You regret—kissing me back. I’m sorry I did it. You said you wanted time to think, but you don’t have to be polite about it. Just telling me you’re not interested would be—easier.”

“I—what?” He stares at her in astonishment.

“It’s—I mean. You’ve been avoiding me for _weeks_. Ever since we went to Haven, well, the memory of Haven…” her irritation falters, just a bit. “It’s not like you ever said anything to make me think otherwise.”

“I told you, I need time. To think about things.” His fingers clench behind his back, and now it is he who looks away.

 _You should tell her she’s right,_ the stern voice in his head lectures him.

 _You should kiss her again_ , a quieter but more compelling whispers.

He aches to grab her and erase all doubts; crush his lips against hers until all the air in her lungs has been gasped from against his mouth. But he resists, raising one hand to his head to rub at his temples. “It is difficult.”

“’Difficult’? You’ve done little but get cross at me since then, or wall yourself away. I _know_ you had to have felt—something. To kiss me like that,” her face flushes, but she keeps speaking, her bottled frustration continuing the tirade for her. “But now you call me a _child_ and treat me as though I can’t make decisions for myself. What am I _supposed_ to think?”

_She should think this is a mistake. It would be best, in the long run._

_Or you could stop talking already and_ show _her how you feel._

“That is _not_ what I meant,” he snaps in exasperation, more with himself than with her. “Which you would know if you’d given me the chance to explain in the first place.”

“So it’s _my_ fault you’re carless with words, now?”

“No! You are not listening, _Vhenan_. If you would just give me a minute—“

The word slips out, unconsciously, and it takes him a second to register the shock on Lavellan’s face, faltering as the rest of his sentence dies on his tongue.

They both stand frozen, and in a wild panic he wonders if maybe he can pretend he didn’t speak it and continue, as if nothing has happened, but it is too late. They both know it.

“I—oh,” Lavellan stutters softly, as he stands frozen and mute. He can’t seem to look away from her face, her eyes wide and framed by the graceful and terrible lines of her _vallaslin_. Her ears have turned bright red, and he can feel his own face flushing. “I should—I should go,” she mumbles, in an entirely different tone than when she’d first tried to leave. He watches her rush from the room, releasing the last of his held breath in a long sigh.

Well. He will have to talk to her, he knows. He has tried to keep his distance, as she noticed, and clearly he is failing.

 _When she returns from her trip,_ he promises himself. Then he will confront this—one way or another. For now, he should seek outside advice, since his mind his clearly too cluttered on its own. He has a friend, he knows, who can help him. Wisdom has always been better with emotions than he. But he thinks he already knows his decision, regardless.

After all, the Dalish legends did get one thing right, at least—he has always been selfish.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The _da'len/hahren_ dynamic as a form of endearment seems like it gets a lot of use, and while I'm not really bothered by it in most fanfic, my Lavellan would _not_ have appreciated being called a 'child' by her lover, even teasingly. So just poking some good-natued fun at the concept :)
> 
>  
> 
> [On my tumblr here.](http://maythedreadwolftakeyou.tumblr.com/post/119225468349/a-slip-of-the-tongue)
> 
>  
> 
>    
>  _Ma sa'lath_ = my only love  
>  _Fenor_ = beloved (from fenxshiral)  
>  _Vhenan_ = my heart, of course.
> 
>  
> 
> I've added a series tag for this particular Lavellan of mine, since she is pretty snarky and fun to write! I swap around personalities for different one-shots, and while I avoid using first names in fics, if you want to read more about her in particular now you can~


End file.
